


Five Sixteen: DollarMoth

by ChaoticFayth



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 17:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticFayth/pseuds/ChaoticFayth
Summary: Sometimes, there is someone around to catch you when you fall.Even if the “sometimes” won’t last forever.





	Five Sixteen: DollarMoth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohhicas](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ohhicas).



> One of 9 drabbles for @ohhicas‘s birthday. More will be posted over the next month, all different ships and fandoms. Another one, here! I’m trying to whip out one a week. I should feel ashamed because songfic, haven’t those died out? But I can’t help myself. (What is this, 1998?)

There’s a bitter taste on his tongue and he tries to swallow through it. He’s not supposed to be in the suit tonight. They’d all agreed he’d take a break after a particularly nasty tabloid ripped them apart. 

Choice words for Silhouette, with the courage to be herself. Underhanded and cowardly allegories for an imposing Hood that towers above them all. Spite and criticism for the youngest of them, only been a Minuteman for a few months. Not good enough. Burning bright and hot and soon to burn out. 

_Just a gimmick_.
    
    
    Look who's digging their own grave
    That is what they all say
    You'll drink yourself to death

Of course, it’d barely registered with the others. They were used to this by now. Ursula was open about every aspect of her life. Who she was, who she was with, what she could do. Hooded Justice just the opposite: he was _untouchable_. But Byron, so shiny and new and barely peeking through the suffocating weight of his anxieties. First to fight for the justice of others but first to crumple under the microscope.

_As fragile as a moth._
    
    
    Look who makes their own bed  
     Lies right down within it  
    And what will you have left?

The neck of a nearly empty bottle dangles from his fingertips. Condensation on the glass and he hadn’t meant to drain so much of it. He doesn’t remember how long he’s been at the top of the fire escape, or when he climbed it, but he’s there. Teetering on the edge, his other hand braced on duct work and he’d be peering across the block if not for the fact that he can’t particularly focus his vision. Nothing is clear and it all looks closer than he knows it should be.

He can’t tell if the city lights are brighter in this neighborhood or if he’s been out long enough for dawn to encroach upon him--it’s the latter, he’ll find out later. But either way it’s brighter than it should be and he’d stick right out if anyone bothered to look. 

Another tip back of the bottle, the last drops of bourbon on his tongue.
    
    
    Out on the front doorstep  
    Drinking from a paper cup  
    You won't remember this

Empty now, the bottle slips from his grasp when he brings his hand back down. There should be a crash far below, but it never meets his ears. Just another couple of hand-holds and he’ll be on the roof. It’s the tallest on the block, best chance for a good glide. Brick is slippery in the early morning dew, come to find out. 

The grips aren’t solid but he’ll make do, he always does. A push off of the railing, fingertips scrape on rough brick at the roof’s edge. The wings strapped to his back flex with his attempts to climb. Flutter, a catch of wind. His legs aren’t cooperating with him, he can’t quite get his boot over the ledge. 

At least there’s a fire escape to fall onto.
    
    
    Living beyond your years  
    Acting out all their fears  
    You feel it in your chest

It’s even brighter the next time he opens his eyes. Or maybe it’s darker and there are brighter bits peeking in. The wings press against his back at terrible angles and he tries to fix that--it can’t be good for them, after all--but nothing moves. 

Someone always smells like musk oil and fresh aftershave.

But there’s no one else here, and there certainly aren’t strong hands pulling at the straps of his wings. If only he could _focus_  on something more than colors and familiar smells that can’t actually be there. Maybe he’ll quit thinking someone’s lifting him, pulling him away from a crumpled mess of wings and a vaguely damp fire escape.

It’s not like he ventured out with a partner tonight.   
Who needs a _partner_ ; he knows what he’s doing.
    
    
    Your hands protect the flames  
    From the wild winds around you

It has to be _hours_ when he wakes again. But it’s not. His head starts to throb and there’s a familiar taste of bile rising in the back of his throat. Though he knows his limbs aren’t working right, he’s definitely moving somewhere. There’s warmth against one side--a solid warmth, a reassuring smell that’s so much stronger now. 

He tries to lift his head, the bridge of his nose presses against more of that solid and warmth and he can _feel_  as well as hear someone say--well, something. It sounds like “a hot shoe” but that doesn’t make any sense. Why would aftershave be worried about hot shoes? His toes feel cold, but his boots have been wearing thin lately.

After a long struggle, he manages to open his eyes. He’s got his face pressed into a blue-buckled neck and strong jaw. Shouldn’t he know that jaw? It’s a good jaw. Looks down at himself and the maroon is obscured by red and white.

A cloth cocoon of stars for a wingless moth.
    
    
    Standing on the cliff face  
    Highest fall you'll ever grace  
    It scares me half to death

The bile’s stronger, later.

It fights with pain and he doesn’t want to open his eyes. Light is a bad idea. But everything is soft and moving doesn’t seem important. He manages a deep breath and the soft that surrounds him smells like musk that he just wants to bury his face into. It’s so good that it makes the pain seem farther away. 

Stirs him enough that he realizes he should have a mask on, but doesn’t.

He wants to reach up to feel for it in case it’s there but he just hurts too much to tell--and someone’s already beat him to the punch. Strong fingertips brush through his hair, against his scalp. Byron can’t stop a groan of half-pain, half something else that manages to crawl out of him, and a voice that soothes every inch of him replies, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Another hand cups his cheek and Byron’s not entirely sure he doesn’t faint.
    
    
    Look out to the future  
    But it tells you nothing  
    So take another breath

Byron’s been awake for a few minutes already. But if he keeps his eyes closed and pretends that he’s not, maybe he can stay in this nest of warm and soft forever. Maybe he can absorb that smell of musk and aftershave into his very being. And maybe he can get over the fact that he’s in clothes that are far to big for him, which can only mean _one thing_.

But a door clicks open and those footsteps still measure the same, even when barefoot and Byron feels a betraying heart thud against his chest. He’d tell it to quiet down if it would only listen. Not that it’s ever listened.

The bed dips a bit and he leans toward it without meaning to. A strong hand catches his shoulder and the moth guesses it’s about time he opens his eyes. Weakly, trying to guard himself from prying light. And he’s greeted by a good jaw and familiar blue eyes and--blonde. Of course he’s blonde.

“You gave me quite a scare, buddy.” There’s that voice again. They should find a way to bottle and sell it, whisk away the woes of the world. A soft smile to match and how is he supposed to fight any of that?

“--sorry.” Byron brings a hand up to weakly bite a thumbnail. Habit. 

“Next time you got stupid plans, you bring me along.” It’s not even a request. Not telling him _not_  to do it. But a ‘it’s you or me or not at all’, and he’s okay with that, for some reason. “We don’t do this without each other. That’s the deal.”

Maybe this partners thing isn’t going to be so bad after all.
    
    
    Icarus is flying too close to the sun  
    And Icarus's life, it has only just begun  
    This is how it feels to take a fall  
    Icarus is flying towards an early grave

**Author's Note:**

> "Icarus" - Bastille


End file.
